


Flambeaux

by fourteenlines



Category: Farscape
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-20
Updated: 2001-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourteenlines/pseuds/fourteenlines
Summary: On a desert planet, lovers are consumed by madness and fire.
Relationships: John Crichton/Aeryn Sun
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Flambeaux

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted circa 2001. Beta by chickwithmonkey.
> 
> This is what happens when your author can't decide whether to write prose or poetry.

_A something in a summer's day  
As slow her flambeaux burn away  
Which solemnize me _  
Emily Dickenson

+++

The way it ended was not as it should have been. They had been left with no way out and had surrendered themselves on behalf of their friends. Naturally, the triumphal captain who had finally ensnared them had promised to leave the others unharmed, but instead had shot them on sight: an innocent-looking saffron blast that snuffed out four lives with more ease than those lives had been given.

She looked away when it happened, unable to stomach the knowledge that she once would have done the same, had the command come. He took her hand and whispered that it didn't matter, it would soon all be over anyway.

He was wrong. She was confused. Never before had she heard of Peacekeepers treating their prisoners in such a manner. They were bound, gagged, and drugged. They never knew how or to where they were transported.

All they knew was that when they woke, they were surrounded by dazzling, mutable creatures. Shapeshifters, they later realized; creatures without solid form who wavered and glistened in a mirage of anthropomorphism. The pair lay miserably in the dust of an endless desert, on a planet where the heat constantly undulated on the edge of oppressiveness. It was not quite enough to send her into endless delirium, but they were both alarmed nonetheless.

His first thought when he awoke was that somehow they had escaped. She must have regained consciousness and used the resourcefulness that never ceased to amaze him to save both their lives. She assumed the same of him. They turned to consult each other...

There was something wrong. On this strange planet, their translator microbes were nonfunctional. Their foreign tongues fell on uncomprehending ears. It was a heavy blow, especially to him.

The mercurial natives helped them to their feet. Their skin prickled where the creatures touched them. Led to a basin of warm water, they understood that they were to drink.

He hadn't realized how pervasive his thirst was. When it had been quenched, his head cleared slightly. He surveyed their surroundings, finding that they had been dumped, or so he assumed, in the middle of some kind of internment camp. There were khaki tents all around them. Turning to her, he unthinkingly began to speak.

"Maybe it's a penal colony."

It was to his delight that he saw a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Take that, Peacekeepers. They no longer needed the microbes to understand each other.

They were led by tingling hands to a tent that they assumed was to be theirs. Though the light was as bright as midday, the natives motioned that it was time to sleep. He pretended to sleep but sat awake watching the sky.

It never got dark.

When she awoke, she looked into his eyes, and they realized the planet didn't rotate.

+++

At first he had assumed the natives were their jailers. But the malleable creatures never once prevented them from doing anything. On a regular schedule an indefinite hand would provide them with water, but for the most part they were left entirely alone.

He had tried to keep track of the days, of how long they had been in this strange place, but without anything to reference, without so much as night, it proved difficult. For a time he had made hash marks in the sand based on his hunger and circadian rhythm, but then a scorching wind would come along and erase all traces of his makeshift calendar. She would shake her head at his fatuousness. This happened twice before he gave up.

One day she woke to find him gone. Wandering around the camp in search of him, she finally spotted him making some sort of pile about halfway to the horizon. She approached, calling his name. He saw the questioning look in her eyes and his face became stoic.

"If we're staying here, I'm building us a house." She bit her lip. He brushed his hand along her hairline, murmuring, "A home." That, she understood. Her eyes fell on the small pile of mysterious dead wood he'd been gathering.

After that, they scavenged for wood together.

+++

The landscape was a desert photograph that had been overexposed. The light was boring and flat, like shadowless noon. He stood on his makeshift porch trying to shade his eyes from the damned infernal brightness, but there was no escaping the eternal daylight. Finally they took to covering their windows with black cloth when they slept.

Supplies seemingly came out of nowhere. The native creatures would give them anything they wanted, but neither of them could ever determine where the cloth, water, or foodstuffs came from. There didn't seem to be any way to get off the planet, or anywhere offworld merchants would come to trade. Even if there was, the planet appeared to have no natural resources with which to barter. It was unsettling. Once they had set up their home and fashioned some slightly cooler clothing, they avoided the natives and scoured the desert for food on their own.

Water was a bigger problem. No matter how deep he dug into the ground, he could not find a well of water anywhere. It seemed to him that this planet had no water; it was simply dust and sand straight to the core. The source of the natives' water remained a mystery, one that his heat-soaked brain could not solve. They stopped questioning it after a while. 

He scavenged for food, and she stayed behind to cook. She protested at first, quite violently. One day she accompanied him, and the heat and sun became overwhelming for her. She protested no longer.

They continued to communicate nonverbally for the most part. It became natural; that way had always been the easiest for them anyway. Gradually he began to learn some Sebacean, though his accent was terrible, and she learned some English, though she always wanted to make it more complex than it was. It was a cooperative effort; it gave them a sense of accomplishment beyond mere survival.

Their relationship, like their life, became much more simple, more basic. No more feelings buried in a myriad of words and sidelong glances. No more refusing to see the forest for the trees. They had fallen deeply and easily into physicality, a residual effect of their sultry surroundings. They made love regularly, almost drunkenly. They found that whatever kind of imprisonment this was, it brought them some joy. He found she liked the taste of salt, laughing as she licked sweat from his chest.

Thus did they build a life together, in a world with no technology, no explanations, no darkness, and no way out. 

+++

One day his sleep was disturbed by the feeling of fever in the air. He woke to find the temperature skyrocketing, as if someone had opened the door on a blast furnace. Choking on the heat, he stumbled to the window and removed the blackout curtain.

His heart sank.

She stirred, sweat dripping off of her in rivulets. She gasped for breath, but her lungs refused to fill. Joining him at the window, she looked out on the scene before them. There was no trace of the native creatures' camp. Not one tent, not one water barrel, nothing. They had deliberately disappeared.

Her eyes met his, and they understood. The Peacekeepers' grand scheme unfolded before them, sharp and clear where it had once been subtle and nebulous.

He touched her cheek. This was the beginning of the end.

+++

Now with only the water they had in a reservoir outside, and with no method of lowering the temperature in what they assumed was the summer season, their house became their prison. If they left, they embarked on a journey of unknown distance and outcome. If they stayed, they were dead as surely as they were forsaken.

They packed their few possessions and bid their home goodbye.

His human mind told him that there were possibilities in the desert. At home, desert nights were cold. If they could reach the dark side of the planet in time, she might have a chance. Maybe there was water there. Maybe they would both have a chance. Maybe their assumptions were wrong.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

At that point, the sound of "maybe" was the sound of hope. It was better than the certainty of death if they stayed behind.

+++

As they walked out the door, they found that one of the creatures had taken pity on them, to an extent. There was a pulse rifle lying on their porch. She opened the cartridge and found enough chakan oil for one blast. Silently, he took it from her. If it became necessary, he'd do it quickly. She was more than family now; she was his whole life.

They did not attempt to sleep except when it became absolutely necessary. The sand was too hot to rest. As best as he could determine, it was two days before they saw any change.

They had been trudging through the dust, weary, weak, rarely speaking. Suddenly the world seemed to dim infinitesimally. He thought his mind was finally breaking down until she came to an abrupt halt behind him. Her short term memory had already started to fade, but looking up to the sky, she noticed that the light was not the same. 

He looked up as well, astonished to find the sun sinking toward the horizon. He could not have been more surprised if the ground itself began to tilt. Exchanging a glance, they sat down to watch.

The orb traced a slow elliptical path through the sky, finally pausing just below the horizon line and bathing the world in an indolent twilight. This lasted for several hours, at least.

To their dismay, it did nothing to abate the heat.

He had a flash of clarity and saw a perfect picture of his mistake in his mind. This world did rotate. It also had a dramatic tilt, and they were situated near the top. He wondered that he didn't notice it before; now he could clearly remember the sun making a small lazy circle like a crown in the sky. He shook his head. The heat and blinding light had been playing tricks on them.

A moment later his mind clouded again. Was that really the way of things, or had they succumbed to a dual madness? How was it all possible? Why did the air not cool? This terrestrial sphere should have seemed like familiar ground; instead it was muddling and confusing. Maybe they were already dead, and this was the infinite second in which his mind fought his body's decay.

The sun rose. They each heaved a sigh and continued on their way.

+++

That day, the third day he termed it in his mind, they held a silent argument. Their eyes did the speaking.

I'm dying, she told him.

No, I won't let you, he assured her.

There's nothing you can do. I'm as good as dead right now.

His eyes flashed angrily. You can't give up! he shouted.

A tear, precious moisture they could not afford to waste, slipped from her eye. She was resigned.

In the twilight that day, the day before she slipped away, she attacked him with a strange kind of ardor, ferocity in slow motion, bruising his lips with her kisses. For both of them it was a final flash of lucidity, one last moment where everything was real before the hazy, torrid curtain descended over them forever. Their love became something solid and corporeal in that moment; a core of blessed infinite darkness buried in blinding light.

On the fourth day she lost her mind. In the dusk of that day she lost consciousness. When he could no longer rouse her, he tested the weight of the pulse rifle in his hand. He blessed the creature who had left it behind; they had no other weapons and he knew he couldn't bring himself to bash in her temple with a rock. He charged the weapon, preparing to fire the last blast. Taking one last look at his suffering love, he fired.

When the sun rose, it was easy to start a fire. Flames seemed to spring up with no fuel to feed them, in the middle of nothing but sand. He built her a funeral pyre. It seemed fitting. He laid her out delicately, then watched as she went up in flames. A warrior's ceremony, like a great Viking, an Arthurian king.

He had saved a lock of her hair, which he tied around the mouth of his water bottle. It was almost empty anyway.

+++

On the fourth day, she died. On the fifth day, he was as good as dead. He ran out of water. Suffering from heat exhaustion and dehydration, he couldn't remember how long a human could survive without water. He hoped it wasn't long.

He continued wandering through the desert. Looking for what, he couldn't say. This was unlike any desert he'd ever encountered before, and he had seen enough of them, both on Earth and in the Uncharted Territories. There were no dunes, only endless stretches of sand and a few distant outcroppings of rock. The heat had eaten up everything so thoroughly, there were no signs of life. No tumbleweed. No cacti. Not even a few insects slinking through the dust.

He tried to think of things that survived in the desert. Camels, they survived. Aardvarks, with their strange suits of armor. Scorpions. He vaguely recalled that those syllables should hold some sort of dread for him, but couldn't call forth a single bit. He wished he were an aardvark.

It seemed strange to him that he'd seen no mirages. He thought that, lost in the desert, you were supposed to see visions of oases, with palm trees, and come to your senses to realize you were drinking sand. All he saw was the distant wavering horizon, stretched out from him on all sides. He ran his hand confusedly through his hair, startled to realize that on this planet, his hair had not gotten any longer, nor had he grown more of a beard than a five o'clock shadow. He laughed, thinking that it was too hot here even for his hair to grow.

His lips chapped and blistered. He fell to the ground once, and the sand burned his palms.

In the twilight of that day, his thoughts started to become unintelligible. Nothing was distinct. He only achieved clarity when he thought of her. He saw her clearly in his mind, long brown hair silhouetted against the blinding light. It troubled him to realize that she was no longer with him. He couldn't for the life of him remember why they had parted.

+++

At the end of the sixth day there came real, honest nightfall. The sun disappeared and strange constellations stood out in the blackness of the sky.

He was thirsty. When she was still with him, he'd given her most of the water, vainly hoping it would help. Now his tongue was swollen from not drinking.

The air remained swelteringly hot. They had been sentenced to die the moment they had been dropped on the planet. The time they'd spent together was a stolen reprieve.

He tried to think of things that were cold. He tried to think of ice cream. The blast of water in the shower when the hot water heater was emptied. He tried to think of winters at MIT, stomping his boots and shaking sleet out of his jacket; trying to hide from his friends the fact that his mother had ordered him galoshes out of the L.L. Bean catalogue. 

The words were there, but he found that they had no meaning.

He knew he'd lost his mind. He vaguely remembered a group of strangely shimmering creatures, creatures who had silently lied to them all along. He was now sure that he could have taken one of those creatures and squeezed out its life with his fist. Perhaps then they would have survived.

He could feel his life ebbing away. His fractured mind ran over the things that had been important to him. Tossing a frisbee in the park with a vibrant man his age. A distinguished hero with grey hair. A woman with crow's feet around her eyes. Four strange creatures who disappeared in a flash of saffron light. All of them were hazy. Then there was the one thing he remembered with perfect clarity, the woman with long brown hair and a cocky grin. He recalled with surreal sharpness that she was the woman he loved. But he still couldn't remember why he had left her. And he found that he no longer knew her name.

He dwelt on her for quite some time. There was a harsh beauty to the memory. 

His last thought, however, was selfish. He hoped feverishly that when some soft, mutable creature found his body, they would burn it, and complete this gradual consumption by fire.


End file.
